


Knots

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Clothing Kink, M/M, Madeleine Era, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What kind of magistrate, Javert thinks viciously, does not know how to properly tie his own cravat?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knots

**Author's Note:**

> Your reading of this fic will be greatly enhanced by [this amazing fanart](http://vejiicakes.tumblr.com/post/45504812552/javert-resumes-his-work-knotting-the-cravat-in-as) by vejiicakes, just sayin'.

M. Madeleine’s cravat is crooked.

It is driving Javert mad.

The man is oblivious to it, talking with Javert as if nothing is amiss. Javert is only half-listening. What kind of magistrate, he thinks viciously, does not know how to properly tie his own cravat? It is obscene. It makes it appear as if M. Madeleine has spent the morning with someone, and was in such a hurry to dress that he fumbled on this final detail. Javert’s eyes flit closed; he refuses to allow the image of M. Madeleine against a wall, undone and panting, to taunt him. This is inane.

He focuses again on M. Madeleine’s face, or tries to—but once again his eyes flit to the crooked knot at his throat. When he attempts to refocus for the third time, he notices that M. Madeleine’s expression has shut, and his congeniality is now entirely forced. Javert’s knowledge must show on his face, because M. Madeleine trails off—what was he even saying?—and leans back in his chair.

“Is everything alright, Inspector?”

“Pardon me, M. le Maire,” he says, and inclines his head. “It is only—” But his throat catches on the words, which suddenly seem inappropriate. He has never been pressed to correct a superior’s dress; he puzzles for a moment, unsure if it is acceptable to correct him. M. Madeleine waits. “Your cravat,” he says, finally.

“My—cravat?” M. Madeleine’s hand flits to his throat; he straightens in his chair and fiddles with the fabric. Without a mirror, he is forced to try to peer down at his neck. A bead of sweat slides down Javert’s side. M. Madeleine messes with the knot for a moment, then sits back. “Is that better?” 

It is worse than before. Damn. He wears the things every day—how can he not secure one by touch? Javert cringes as he says, “No, Monsieur. A little to your right, sir.” 

M. Madeleine tries again. 

“Perhaps if you untie it and start over,” Javert suggests.

“No, no, this is fine,” M. Madeleine mumbles, fussing with the knot. It draws the eye to the pale skin of his neck, which is visible in brief flashes as he tugs at the cravat. Javert swallows, then regrets it; the sound is inordinately loud. “There. Is that better?” 

Javert tries to lie. “It is not,” he says. 

M. Madeleine takes to fussing over it again, and he still refuses to untie the damned thing and start over.

“Monsieur,” Javert says. “Please.” 

M. Madeleine looks up, startled. “Excuse me?”

Javert barely manages to recover by saying, “Allow me.” 

Before he can think about what he is doing, Javert walks around the desk, removes his gloves, and bends over M. Madeleine. The mayor, perhaps too shocked to do anything else, leans back in his chair and stares. 

All of his tugging has made the knot of the cravat unruly, so that Javert has to take several seconds longer than he should like to untie the thing. He smooths the fabric out, using M. Madeleine’s neck as a baseline with which to straighten out the wrinkles and coils in the fabric. As he does this, he can see M. Madeleine’s throat work with one swallow, then a second. 

“Javert,” he says, and Javert is surprised that his tone is a low warning. He pauses, both ends of the cravat in hand. M. Madeleine’s expression is unreadable. “This is not necessary,” he says.

“The citizens will talk,” Javert says. Flush is creeping up his face. “They will wonder why you are not dressed properly." He pauses. "You do not have a mirror.” 

M. Madeleine relaxes, if only by increments. His gaze flits down. 

Javert resumes his work, knotting the cravat in as perfunctory a way as he can, though his whole body has flushed, now, and he is too aware of how close he is to M. Madeleine. He is afraid to breathe too heavily, for he does not want to know if his breath would brush against M. Madeleine’s face like fingertips. It is an unfortunate necessity that his hands must touch M. Madeleine’s skin as he finishes tying the cravat. He smooths it down the front of M. Madeleine’s chest, then tucks the tail into his vest. 

His hand would linger there—he can feel the heaviness in him and knows it for what it is. He snaps his hands to his side and walks around the desk once more, and stands erect and composed. 

M. Madeleine touches the cravat, very lightly, leaving a dint in the smooth plane of the fabric. “Better?” he asks, slowly.

Javert nods.

“Thank you,” he says, as if the words are ones he is unfamiliar with, as if Javert is a stranger.

The room is warm. Sweat has collected under Javert’s collar. He inclines his head—but he does not trust himself to speak.

*

The next time Javert sees M. Madeleine, the knot of his cravat is impeccably placed.


End file.
